We'll Always Have Paris
by ava jamison
Summary: An exhibit of Amazonian jewels goes missing at the Gotham Museum of Antiquities, and local philanthropist Bruce Wayne is asked to perform as ambassador by following the exhibit to its next destination: Paris. Dick follows. Set in the Silver Age, in 1969, this fic is filled with the magic of Paris, Dick's joie de vivre and Bruce being inappropriate. Updates on Wednesdays.
1. Bonjour, Dick Grayson!

The flight landed right on time, and Dick awoke to find himself staring into the eyes of the pretty blonde mini-skirted stewardess. She was kneeling beside his first-class seat, shaking him awake. "We've landed, Mr. Mathews. You've reached your destination." He hoped he hadn't been snoring, grinned and blinked, then got his briefcase and trotted down the jet's stairway to the tarmac into the sunny Paris morning. He couldn't stop grinning.

Ducking into the airport VIP lounge, Dick checked his reflection in the bathroom. Was his mustache a little crooked, or was it his imagination? Better safe than sorry. The skin above his upper lip stung a little when he pulled it off and he pressed his finger onto the red line that momentarily appeared where the mustache had been. Working quickly, he cleaned off the adhesive residue from his face and the appliance before reapplying the glue and carefully aligning and attaching the pencil thin line of real hair back in place. Then he combed his hair, straightened the lapel of his hip new brown corduroy jacket and winked at himself in the mirror. "Grayson, you've it going on," he said, then caught himself and used his 'Dave Mathews' voice. And name. Twice. It was always hard to tell for sure, listening to yourself, but he'd practiced the voice at home, taping and listening, and he'd come away pretty pleased with the results. He smiled at his reflection and gave himself a thumbs up.

Dick headed for baggage claim and waited to collect his luggage, tapping his foot with impatience, a grin still plastered on his face. The smile barely dimmed, even a half hour later when the last of the bags were claimed by his fellow passengers and it looked like his had gone on to Rome. Good thing he had all the important stuff in his briefcase. He filled out a missing items form and hailed a taxi.

At one o'clock, the cab dropped him at 1818 Rue de Matin, the DuMarier estate at the edge of the city. A garden party was in session, and elegant guests were scattered across the green expanse of carefully landscaped lawn. Within fifteen minutes, Dick had infiltrated the waiter's station, pilfered and donned a proper jacket and apron, and commandeered a tray of champagne. Time to circulate amongst the international socialites and celebrities.

Zeroing in on his target, Dick approached a party of two playing croquet on the sunny lawn: a tall, handsome, impeccably dressed man and a slim, dark-haired girl in a yellow floral party dress. Silver tray balanced perfectly in one hand, Dick negotiated the slight roll of the carefully manicured landscape, catching bits of the couple's conversation as he grew closer.

"I'm gaining on you, Bruce," the young woman said, striking mallet to ball with a satisfying thwack.

"Not quite well enough, I'm afraid," Bruce said, striding languidly toward his ball, about ten feet away.

Voice aiming for a full octave lower than his usual register, Dick interrupted the couple. "Champagne?"

"Oh, champagne," the girl said, electric blue eyes darting to the fizzing crystal flutes Dick held aloft. "Oui."

Bruce didn't look up, squaring his shoulders and gauging the playing field. "Petit chou, I wonder if you are old enough?" He chuckled, low in the back of his throat. It wasn't an authentic laugh, and it wasn't even the millionaire playboy laugh. Maybe Bruce was tired, after two weeks of playing the part.

"I won't tell my parents, if that's what you mean," she said, pushing back a strand of dark hair and taking a glass. "You have to know I don't tell them everything."

"Mais oui, Lorena," Bruce answered. "And I believe I have some rather bad news, dear." He raised his mallet. The strike was perfect, and his red ball rolled with a smack into her green one, knocking it aside before rolling through two wickets.

Dick cleared his throat, then said, in flawless French. "Two wickets and a roquet on one stroke, sir. Very nice."

Bruce's eyes narrowed and flicked up to really look at the waiter. Then he grinned, as warm a smile as Dick had seen on his face in months.

With a fluid, perfect roll his arm, Dick extended the silver tray of sparkling drinks.  
"Champagne, monsieur?"

"On second thought, yes." Bruce said, moving toward him, still grinning.

"And I'll want another glass, Bruce." The girl said, her voice bordering on a whine. "See?" She drained most of the flute she was currently holding in three little slurps, then giggled. "It tickles!" she said, stepping unsteadily toward her ball, her heels wobbly in the green grass.

Bruce's laugh was directed at her, and it was false, but his eyes, focused on Dick, were smiling, mischievous. He reached for a crystal flute. "Merci, garçon."

"But of course, monsieur," Dick said, continuing their little charade, in his best version of Alfred, were Alfred from another country. "But is the lady old enough to indulge in such refreshment?"

"Darling," Bruce said over his shoulder, his eyes still on Dick. "Darling, quell âge avez-vous?"

The girl, who'd been taking her shot, either didn't hear her companion or had decided to ignore him. Bruce shrugged, broad, muscular shoulders rolling up, then down in a semblance of helplessness. "It's no use, I'm afraid. She doesn't speak much French. Or English, if the words are more than one or two syllables."

"Bruce, what are you talking about?" she called. "Me?"

"He inquired whether you were of age, my dear."

The girl came closer, smiling vacuously her small fingers wrapped around the stem of her glass. "That's a bit cheeky for a waiter, is it not?" She glared at Dick, then smiled slyly at Bruce, batting her lashes a bit. "And after all, I'm in France, aren't I?"

"Indeed you are, mon petit chou." Bruce nodded, speaking to her but winking at Dick, while simultaneously digging something from his pocket. "As am I, so why not indulge a bit. Paris is lovely today. Why not toast to that?"

Bruce took a second flute, balancing them both between the fingers of one large hand, then used the other to place a few folded franc notes on the space the glasses had occupied. His eyes were dancing, crinkled at the corners with pleasure.

"Payment is not necessary, monsieur," Dick said, wondering what Bruce was up to, but playing along.

"Ah, but I insist, dear boy. I like to take care of business as I go. Attend to details. So I must give you a little something for your trouble." Bruce used his index finger to gently tap the folded bills, and the edge of something silver peeked out, shining against the white linen napkin that lined the tray. A key.

Dick scooped the bills and key into his pocket just before the girl got close enough to deposit her empty glass and take the new one Bruce presented to her. She clinked it against Bruce's. "To Paris, then. And all it's exciting new adventures.

"Mm," Bruce answered, his eyes flicking to Dick and then past him, scanning the lawn and a group of guests collecting near the rose garden. "I do believe we need to join our hosts for lunch, dear. And I'm afraid I won't be able to join you for dinner, after all, Lorena."

She frowned.

Bruce took her arm, patting it soothingly as he began to steer her toward the other guests. "I know, ma chère." He formed a moue of disappointment, but his eyes sparkled. "I have a friend meeting me at the Paris Ritz." Looking back over his shoulder at Dick, he winked, then touched his watch and threw what Dick thought for a moment was a victory sign, before he realized Bruce meant 2:00.

Dick grinned back.

Swinging open the door to Suite 512, Dick could only think that the Paris Ritz was very, very ritzy indeed. Done in yellow and ivory Louis XIV style, it wasn't exactly to his taste, but it was swanky. He wandered through the suite's sitting area, and was out on the sunny balcony, taking in the view of the Seine, when he heard Bruce come in.

"Dick, shame on you." Bruce grabbed him by the shoulders, grinning. "And Alfred is implicated too, I suppose." For a moment, Dick thought he was going to be hugged, but it passed, though Bruce's hands stayed, gripped like vises on his upper arms. "I've never been so surprised to see you in my life."

"I fooled you there for a minute, didn't I?"

"For a split second, I thought the DuMarier family had employed an inappropriately convivial waiter, but then I saw it was you—turn around, let me look." Bruce's hand on his shoulder shifted, pushing to steer him clockwise. "It's a good disguise, Dick. Well-chosen, good wardrobe, and the pencil mustache is an unexpected touch for you." He clapped him on the back. "Nicely played. Gordon gave you my itinerary, I suppose?"

Dick nodded. "He did."

"And how did you get out of school a day early?"

"Alfred called the principal and—"

"I can't believe Alfred would be complicit in helping you miss extra school."

"You already told the school I'd be missing the other few days, and that you'd make sure I studied," Dick rolled his eyes. "And my French teacher is in love with you for saying you'd make sure I took in some Parisian culture. Besides, it's just one more day and he knows it's for a good cause.

"And that is, besides you surprising me a day early at a garden party?"

"For whatever you needed my help with, that's what. You sounded so funny on the phone—"

"Really?"

"Really, Bruce." Dick waited, but Bruce obviously wasn't going to say anything else. Dick took a deep breath and decided to move on. "And—"

"Yes?"

"What?"

"Is there another reason?"

"Well, yeah, Bruce."

"You mean 'yes, Bruce.'"

"What?"

"Yes. Not yeah, please."

Dick sighed. "Yes, Bruce. I wanted to see if I could fool you."

Bruce cocked an amused eyebrow.

"I mean, I know I didn't fool you for long. But I did surprise you. I just wanted to," Dick hesitated, choosing his words carefully, "show you what I could do. Get to try out my disguise skills on somebody… like you."

"Indeed." Bruce brought his hand up to Dick's face. "Somebody exactly like me." He ran his index finger over Dick's upper lip, tracing the thin line of the false mustache. "Although you've done that many, many times before, Dick."

"Bruce, that tickles. And I've only ever been Robbie Malone before."

Bruce's eyes narrowed, his finger stilling. "Now, Dick, you know that's not exactly accurate. Really now."

"And a girl. I've been a girl," Dick cut in, just to get it over with. "Back before I was—like I am now." He took a very small step backwards, away from Bruce's ticklish finger, and looked down at the thick, expensive hotel room rug.

"Dick?" Bruce closed the distance between them, moving his hand to Dick's chin and raising it until he was staring right into Bruce's dark blue eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I'm too old to play a girl—now—Bruce." Dick took a deep breath and tried to plaster on his gamest smile. "Look at me. I'm old enough to wear a fake mustache and fool people with it."

"Ah." Bruce smiled. It was a small smile, and either very gentle, or very strained. His eyes weren't meeting Dick's anymore, but focused somewhere past him. Still holding Dick's chin, he absently stroked Dick's cheek with his thumb. "You are indeed turning from an exceptional boy into an exceptional young man."

Dick felt his cheek heat with a blush under Bruce's thumb. "Gosh, Bruce," he said, and pulled away slightly to get Bruce to let go.

"Mm hm." Bruce interrupted. He didn't seem to be really listening, and his eyes were still a little far-off. "Is it an homage to Matches?" he asked, testing the ends of the appliance, tugging gently, then rubbing the pad of his thumb against the grain.

"Um, maybe? I didn't really think about it." It was weird to talk when his lips were brushing against someone else's fingers. "Seriously, Bruce." Dick ducked his head to dodge Bruce's hand and escape the tickling sensation. "Wouldn't it be a great disguise for me to use on this job?"

"On a job, perhaps. Actually, I had something else in mind for this particular case."

"I thought you might—"

"So you decided to sway me into trying something else?" Bruce smiled indulgently. "What do you call this character you've developed, Dick?"

"Dave Mathews."

"Well, Dave Mathews, I have an appointment to keep, but I'd love to fill you in on all the details of this case. Perhaps over dinner?"

"Sure, Bruce."

Bruce checked his watch. It's three now. I have a suspect I'm shadowing with a three-thirty appointment at the Arc de Triomphe.

"Need backup, boss?" Dick asked, hopeful.

Bruce shook his head. "Regrettably, no. You need to be briefed first, and I won't have time until tonight. That's part of the reason I wanted you to come tomorrow. That, and I didn't want you to miss any more school than was absolutely necessary."

"It's really okay with the school, Bruce."

"Hmm. Says the young man who is 'all grown up'. Well, I did promise them I'd see to it that you studied while you were here. Where are your books?"

"The airlines lost one of my bags. Luckily," Dick said, rolling his eyes, "I had my books in the case I carried on." Dick gestured toward the small case in the sitting area.

Bruce clapped a hand on his back in commiseration. "Well, hit the books for a bit, Dick. I'm going to keep an eye on a dragon lady and her mystery contact."

"Sounds interesting! I'd sure like to hear about it."

Bruce shrugged. "It's nothing compared to everyday Gotham patrol, but we'll have a nice dinner together tonight and I'll catch you up on everything."

Dick tried to focus on trigonometry, then something for World Lit, but the Paris afternoon and the chaise lounge on the balcony lured him into a nap. He fell asleep with The Iliad open across his chest, and woke to find that the afternoon was turning to evening, the shadows were getting longer, and that one shadow in particular was looming over him, the barest hint of a smile ghosting over Bruce's face.

"Good book, Dick?" Bruce said, wryly cocking an eyebrow.

"Hey, I think I had jet lag." Dick yawned, stretching his arms. "How'd surveillance go?"

"Mostly a waste of time, I'm afraid." Bruce shrugged. "Dick, about these…" he held up a sheaf of papers he'd retrieved from the sitting room.

"Uh-huh. I put them out for you."

"I've read the first few pages."

"Good. You can see nothing has really—"

"You typed these reports." Bruce interrupted, pacing a few steps back and forth in front of Dick's chair.

"Yes…"

"You coded them." Bruce turned and strode inside, where Gotham's daily reports were fanned across the table.

Dick jumped up and followed. "Well, yes."

"I thought Clark was going to do that."

"Bruce," Dick said, sinking into one of the two the heavily upholstered couches. "He's just not as good at that stuff."

"Hmm." Bruce frowned, sitting down on the opposite couch. He gathered the stack of reports, then abruptly changed the subject. "Ready for dinner?"

"I guess so. Isn't it a little early?"

Bruce shrugged. "Going like that? The mustache makes you look older, I think."

"What if we run into your little friend?"

"Who?"

"Petit chou chou?"

"Lorena? I was only entertaining the poor girl because she seemed lonely."

Dick snorted, leaning back to flop down and lie on the couch. "Sure, Bruce."

"Actually, it's part of my cover here, entertaining Lorena."

"Yeah. Well, okay, boss. She did seem a little young, though. A lot young, really. But what if we see her?"

"She'll just have to think," Bruce's tone is playful, "that I prefer a certain member of the DuMarier help staff as my dinner companion, that's all. Unless you'd prefer I don some disguise as well? I could slum it a bit, too."

"Really? That would be so much fun, Bruce. But maybe not full Matches Malone, okay, Bruce?"

"Don't you like the plaid, Dick?"

"Well, it's just that I'm not Robbie tonight. I'm…Dave Mathews. An average Joe."

"Ah. I see." Bruce beamed at him.

"You did say I couldn't always be Robby Malone, Bruce."

"Indeed I did. Perhaps I can just be an average joe as well tonight. Something between Matches Malone and Millionaire Playboy."

"Neither one of them are average, Bruce."

"My point entirely, Dick."

"But closer to Matches than Millionaire, right?"

"On the spectrum, yes. I'll just part my hair differently, let myself show a bit of a five o'clock shadow, dress down a bit. We could go and see how the other half lives, over something plebian."

"Yeah!" Dick said, and then sat up. Mentally noting with a smile that somehow his brain was connecting poor grammar with poor posture, he sat up a little straighter, waiting for Bruce to correct his slang.

Bruce, however, was already heading to change clothes and didn't seem the least perturbed.

Dick called after him, relaxed silliness creeping into his voice. "We could get hamburgers!"

"I hardly think Alfred would forgive me for allowing you to eat like that in one of the great cities of the worl—"

"But we would be enjoying the local food," Dick yelled back, setting up his punch line, "if we got 'French' fries!"

Bruce's groan was audible, but Dick could only just laugh as he collapsed back into the couch cushions.


	2. Bon Appetit

The café was warm and homey, small and family-run. They were the first dinner guests, and the owner seated them at the nicest of his four tables, then brought out some bread and a bottle of wine. No hamburgers on the menu at all. Coq au vin, foie de veau and escargot would have to suffice. And those dishes sounded a little ritzy for two average Joes out on the town, until Bruce explained that coq au vin was just a way to make a tough rooster taste delicious by simmering it in wine all day, foie de veau was some kind of liver and l'escargot de Bourgogne was just a fancy way of saying snail.

"Really Dick, I cannot believe you've avoided the delicacy for as long as you have," Bruce said, motioning toward the appetizer he'd ordered for the two of them.

Dick eyed the escargot suspiciously, shells and small bits of dark flesh swimming in butter and flecks of parsley. "It's just the idea, Bruce."

"Every seventeen-year-old ward of a millionaire should at least have a slight taste for the finer things," Bruce said, cutting another slice of baguette.

"They're snails, Bruce. I'm not sure that qualifies as a 'finer' thing,"

"You're going to be in a situation—a formal dinner—where eventually, you'll need to enjoy them." Bruce said. Expertly, he finessed one of the small tidbits of meat from its shell. "Without making that face, Dick," Bruce teased. "They really are quite delicious." Speared on his fork, he swirled it through the sauce on the plate, but instead of eating the morsel, he cupped his other hand under the dangling crescent of flesh, ready to catch any drips of butter, and brought it to Dick's mouth. "Try it."

"I don't think…" Dick started to protest, but Bruce's cocked eyebrow was a dare, so he took it, parting his lips and letting Bruce feed him the delicacy. It was… slimy, but firm. Speculative, he began to chew, wondering if his face looked as disgusted as he felt.

Bruce watched him, taking a sip of Pinot Noir, then watching him some more as he took another sip, his smile growing the entire time. "Is it the texture?"

"I think so," Dick said, grimacing. "It's—it doesn't seem to get any smaller in my mouth, is all. It feels like it's getting bigger…" He reached for his Coca Cola. "Feels like I can't swallow it."

Bruce smiled a little, digging in and eating one with relish. "Maybe it's an acquired taste."

"Maybe," Dick agreed, taking a swig of his soda. And then coughed, choking.

Instantly, Bruce reached across the table to pound Dick's back. "Okay, chum?"

Dick nodded, then sputtered a 'yes', wiping his face with his napkin. "I'm fine," he added, embarrassed. "I just forgot they serve the cokes warm here, is all."

"Would you like a sip of wine?"

"Can I?"

"Eventually, you're going to be in a situation where that will be a necessary evil, as well. I see no problem with one small glass of the celebratory drink of Bacchus. The waiter did bring two glasses." Bruce picked up Dick's goblet. "When in Rome, as it were." He poured. "And did I see you 'reading' _The Iliad_ while you napped on the veranda?"

"Yeah—I mean yes." Dick tried the Pinot. It was bitter, a little heavy on his tongue, not as sweet as he would've thought or liked, but not too bad. "We've got a test on it next week."

"Ah, Homer. How far along are you?"

"Patroclus is impersonating Achilles."

"Mmm." Bruce nodded. "By wearing Achilles' armor. What do you think of the story?"

"It's okay, I guess."

"And your other subjects? Calculus? Latin?"

"Good." Dick tried another sip of wine. He wanted the snail—well, not the taste, so much, because it just tasted like butter and garlic—but he wanted the memory of that texture out of his mouth. By the third sip, the wine tasted better. Less bitter, more tangy, like maybe his mouth was getting used to it.

"How are things back in Gotham?"

"Fine, Bruce—you saw the daily reports."

"I'll finish them when we return to the hotel. How is Gotham functioning without Batman and Robin?"

"Well, as far as anybody knows…"

"It's still got Batman, correct?"

"Yes."

"And how is Clark doing?"

"Superman is doing alright, keeping an ear out."

"With plenty of help from you, it would seem. I wonder how he'll manage now that you are here helping me." Bruce's tone was—Dick couldn't quite place it. He sounded almost… what? Jealous?

He wasn't sure. Dick took another sip of wine, thinking, then decided to break the silence.

"You miss being Batman right?"

"I am—" Bruce began, then sighed. "I find it trying to be here instead of Gotham, and having to be Bruce Wayne, with no recourse to my other persona or any of its… advantages, Dick."

Out of the corner of his eye, Dick saw their waiter approach.

"Look, I believe our main courses are here," Bruce said, smiling as though they'd been discussing the World Series.

When the man departed, Bruce continued. "No lab, no gym, or at least only sub-par spa-type gyms—the only kind I can get away with in my socialite role—no computer, no one to spar with," he ran a hand through his hair, then rolled his eyes at Dick, sheepish. "Here I am complaining. Anyone else would be happy to have a Parisian holiday. And it hasn't even been all holiday. Certain aspects of the case here have been quite stimulating, really. Although I must admit that I feel terribly… antsy? Is that the word you'd use, Dick?"

Dick nodded, grinning. "We can spar tonight, if you want."

"Perhaps not tonight, Dick." Bruce smiled, but the smile didn't quite make it to his eyes this time.

"Weren't you going to tell me about the case here?"

"Certainly," Bruce said, shaking his head and the far-away look, refilling his own glass and pouring a bit more in Dick's own.

Dick had another sip. The heavy, spicy taste was definitely growing on him.

"It's really a game of cat and mouse, Dick. You know about the Treasures of the Amazon exhibit, correct?"

"Yeah, Bruce. Our whole high school junior class went on a field trip to see it."

"Then you know the exhibit is a joint venture between the Gotham Museum of Antiquities and Brazil."

Dick nodded.

"It was quite a coup for Gotham to host the exhibit, and contribute a number of appropriate pieces to the combination of ancient, priceless artifacts."

"And now it's here, at its next stop, Paris."

"Yes. And Bruce Wayne, Gotham society gadabout and philanthropist, is here in ambassador role to accompany the tour. But in reality, important pieces are in danger—and the pattern strongly suggests that the goods will be used to fund communist activities."

"Communists?"

"Shh, Dick. Keep your voice down."

"Sorry. I just thought… wow!"

Bruce nodded. "Their plan is twofold, I believe. One, to fund an uprising. Brazil going red would be the coup of the century. And two, to cause an international incident that embarrasses the United States.

"What?"

"By shaming Gotham. The theft will be placed squarely on the shoulders of the Americans who allowed the loss of the major treasure, one of the great historical antiquities. Most importantly, the legendary piece known as the Maiden's Sacrifice."

"That necklace? They're trying to steal that necklace? I saw that, Bruce. On the field trip. All those emeralds. It's a really big deal. There were guards everywhere. How are they gonna steal that?"

Bruce leaned closer, continuing in a low voice. "It already _was_ stolen. Back in Gotham. Substituted with a worthless copy.

Dick realized his mouth was hanging open. He shut it, quickly. "So what's the plan, boss?"

"We're going to substitute the substitute."

"Gosh, how?"

"Right under their noses. During a party, being given in honor of the delegation."

"Good thing I brought my dress tuxedo."

Bruce ate another bite of… rooster. "The food certainly is delicious, isn't it?"

"It is. I'm glad we slummed it tonight." Dick felt his words slowing, slurring just a little, like they were as thick in his mouth as the wine had been.

Bruce paused. "Are you alright, Dick?"

"I'm fine. It's a little warm in here, maybe?"

Bruce tilted his head, looking closely at him. "No more wine for you, I think."

"No, it's not that. I'm fine. I think it's just the jet lag again."

Bruce smiled at him, nodding gently.

"Mr. Wayne!" a voice called across the lobby of the Ritz. It was the bellboy, and he had three pieces of correspondence for Bruce.

As they entered the elevator, Bruce thumbed through them. "Ah, one from Lucius, one from Alfred. I must tell Alfred that I've finally had a meal here that could rival his own cooking. And I have you to thank as well, Dick. Tonight's choice was better than the 'fine' restaurants Bruce Wayne has been enjoying."

"Huh. The ritzy joints aren't what they're cracked up to be?"

"I'd rather be home, Dick. I miss Alfred's cooking. And the dinner company as well."

Dick ducked his head. "What? The jet set debutantes aren't doing it for—"

The elevator dinged and opened on their floor.

"They are silly sycophants only too happy to pander to the whims of a vapid playboy. I'll be glad when this job is done and the jewels are back where they belong."

"But see, I don't get why you're doing it. Two weeks away from Gotham? And you didn't even—"

"Didn't even what?" Bruce paused; hand on the hotel room door.

"Explain anything." Dick said, sighing louder than he meant to. His brain felt fuzzy, but in a warm, good way. "That's what I don't get, Bruce. Why you had to leave in such a hurry, without even telling me."

"There wasn't time. You were at school."

"It's just that after that—after I—after what happened." He hesitated, then pushed on. "After what happened, I—"

The hotel room was dark, and as they entered, Bruce tripped.

Dick gasped. That might be, he thought, the first time he'd ever seen Bruce trip by accident. He'd seen it faked before, clumsy for the 'sycophants,' but this was real.

"This lack of being Batman," Bruce explained, rueful and embarrassed. "Two weeks without my alter ego apparently leads to clumsiness and a reduction in my night vision capabilities."

"Sorry." Dick switched on the light. "It doesn't help when my lost luggage shows up and gets left right in front of the door. You okay?"

"I'm fine." Bruce leaned against the loveseat, massaging his ankle.

"Do you want to go over those reports?"

"Hit the sack, Dick. We've got a lot to do tomorrow."

Dick picked up his suitcase. "Which room?"

"On the left," Bruce said, opening his mail.

Moments later, Dick was back. "Bruce, there are dresses in that closet."

"Hmm?" Bruce looked up from the letter he'd been reading.

"Dresses. And—" Dick angrily waved a shoebox at Bruce. "And shoes. Women's shoes!" The box was beginning to crush in his grip. "They aren't for me, are they?"


	3. Meanwhile, Back in Gotham

Superman, dressed as Batman, patrols Gotham in Batman's stead.

Harder than he thought, putting in another appearance in Gotham. Was one thing helping Dick out, a whole other thing playing Batman solo. Hadn't wanted to, didn't think Bruce would ask. And Bruce hadn't, but Dick had.

"Clark, could you just swing by a couple of times while we're gone? Keep the local thugs on their toes? Don't want the criminal element to get too… complacent. Me and Bruce got a job to do overseas."

So he had, last night and this one. Lois was on assignment in Ceylon, anyway. And Metropolis was quiet, so… might as well make himself useful for an hour or two.

The cowl was a hassle, though. In fact, all of this Bat gear was a pain. Especially on a hot night, like tonight. How Bruce put up with it all these years was—did he have a summer suit? Because, Jeez, you really had to like leather. And body armor, a lot. To wear this thing.

Being Kryptonian didn't stop you from sweating, and he was already too warm when he made it to the fire raging at 42nd and Finger.

A quick scan showed three people in Acme Supplies, where the fire was worst. Two night watchmen and a pizza delivery guy. He deposited the last man on the sidewalk just as the first fire truck arrived on the scene.

Flames licked at the walls of the next building, Schwartz's Diamonds. Just one person in that two-storey—a woman. He punched a hole through from the back of the warehouse to get close, but whoever she was, she was moving fast. He didn't see her until she was on him.

Just a "Hello, Tiger," as she pounced, and her whole, squirming body was thrown against his. She landed in his arms, wrapped around him, leather catsuit and body heat, arms around his neck, thighs around his hips, her body pushing and writhing against his and for the first time tonight he's actually glad he's in the batsuit, because—well, no wonder Bruce wears a heftier codpiece than Superman.

Catwoman ground against him, pelvis to pelvis and he could… he could smell her, sweat and… other scents and it—God, he missed Lois.

Lips on his, harsh and hot and without even thinking, he opened his mouth to let her tongue push inside, demanding. As soon as he did, she yanked away to give a sudden, savage little bite to the side of his jaw, so hard and unexpected that he almost yelped.

Her breath was a hiss in his ear. A disappointed hiss.

"You're not him."

"No ma'am."

She laughed, halfway between a purr and a growl, settling her hips even snugger around his… lower regions as she pulled back to see his face, hands on his biceps.

"Who are you then, Big Boy?"

"I'm, um—" He cleared his throat. "A friend."

"I see." She looked over her shoulder at his hands, where Batman's right and left gauntlet gripped a plump, muscular, perfectly rounded rear end.

One of them, completely of its own accord, had been squeezing. He… made it stop doing that.

Her teeth flashed in a sharp smile. "So… friend? You gonna put me down anytime soon?"


	4. May I Have this Dance, Beau Garçon?

Chapter 4: May I Have this Dance, Beau Garçon? Back in Paris again, Dick and Bruce have a conversation.

Dick angrily waved a shoebox at Bruce. "And shoes. Women's shoes!" The box was beginning to crush in his grip. "They aren't for me, are they?"

Bruce's smile stayed frozen in place. After a moment, he nodded, slowly.

"Geez, B. I don't want to do it. I don't. Can't you see that I'm too…"

"The only reason we might even get away with it this time, Dick, is if we truly practice the art of disguise. To its highest art, because you are most certainly not a girl."

Dick stared down into the open shoebox.

"Do they fit?"

"What?" Dick rubbed the back of his neck.

Bruce repeated himself, pausing between each word as though he were speaking to a five-year old. "Do they fit?" He stood, taking the box from Dick's hands, and pulling out a shoe. "You seem to have grown larger in only two weeks. Can your feet still fit into a women's size nine?"

"I don't know, Bruce, but that's not the—" Dick could have sworn the wine was making it harder to think, harder to argue.

"Sit down."

Without even thinking, just following the tone of the voice, Dick sank into the loveseat.

"Good boy." Crouching in front of him, Bruce patted Dick's left knee and reached for his ankle.

"Bruce, I don't want to be a girl again. I'm too old, and it—"

Bruce pulled off his penny loafer, then his sock. Holding Dick's foot by the heel, he slid on the woman's shoe, eyeballing it and rubbing the toe, trying to feel for Dick's foot through the leather. "This one's okay. Your right foot is a trifle bigger, though, so let's try it, too."

"Bruce, I don't-"

"Don't whine, Dick. It's unbecoming a master detective. Give me your other foot."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Dick stuck out his right foot and waited grimly while Bruce put on the other shoe, then smiled up at him from his spot in front of the loveseat. As he stood, he tousled Dick's hair. "It's okay, Dick. It's for the mission. Stand up now. You'll want to practice in them."

"What?"

Bruce reached for his hands and pulled him to his feet, then gave him a little push toward the balcony. "Walk to the door and back." He sighed as Dick grudgingly complied. "No, smaller steps. Much smaller. You know this, Dick."

"Oh, I know this, all right. That's the prob—"

"Tightrope and straight line," Bruce said, watching. "Put all of your weight in the ball of your foot, please."

Dick made it to the door, turned around, and returned.

"Now, can you waltz in them?"

"What?"

"There'll be dancing." Bruce was speaking very slowly again and it was becoming more and more annoying. "Can you waltz in them?"

"Probably, Bruce." Dick crossed his arms over his chest and sighed loudly. "The thing is, I don't want to."

"Mmm. I see."

"Why do I always have to be the girl?"

"I'm really not built for it, Dick."

"And I am?" He straightened, puffing out his chest. "Bruce, seriously. Look at me."

"You are a very masculine young man, Dick." Bruce said, patting his shoulder. "But this one time, this one last time, I need you to do this." Bruce crossed the room to the small, in-room radio set into the wall. He switched it on. Frank Sinatra was singing 'Nice N' Easy.' "And it's not for me, Dick. It's for your country."

Dick scrubbed his face, then held up his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay, boss," he said as Bruce reached toward him, "but this is the absolute last time."

"As you say, Dick."

Bruce's left hand was cool in his as Dick clasped it in his own right and raised it to eye level.

"Waltz?"

"You mean to the wrong kind of music? It's bad enough I have to do it backwards, and in high heels."

"Let's see if those dance lessons paid off. Miss Mitzi has always prided herself on being Gotham's best teacher."

"But the music's—I mean it's dance music, but it's not three-four."

"Foxtrot, then." Bruce placed his right hand on Dick's shoulder blade. "Such a purist. No wonder you were Miss Mitzi's star pupil."

Dick rolled his eyes. "I wasn't the star pupil."

"She loved dancing with you." Bruce teased. "Ready? Slow, slow, quick quick, right?"

"Right."

"On three. One, two, three." They began to move. "Dick? You're not leading. I am."

"Hey, you're not the one having to do things backwards, Bruce."

"And I don't have your grace, either," Bruce said.

"Grace? Bruce, that's not very manly word."

"I wasn't aware that the word 'grace' had a gender. I'm pressing my hand into your shoulder blade a little harder. Maybe that will help you remember to follow."

"Sorry. It's—I'm not used to it."

"I know."

Dick took a deep breath and willed himself to give up, to let himself be led.

"You're doing fine. That's it."

"My brain, the muscle memory—just making the shift is all."

"Dick, I knew you were the star pupil."

"Her perfume, it was so strong," Dick said, smiling despite himself as he relaxed, his movements becoming more fluid. "It'd give me a headache by the end of class, and then when I'd leave, I'd smell like her."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Do you remember the time—"

"The time that crook smelled it on me on the street?"

"I seem to remember you knocked him a little extra hard. After he said, what was it?"

"That I 'stank like a flower shop.' Jerk. I already had him nailed, on the ground and was cuffing him. I probably was a little too rough on him," Dick said, his grin rueful. "And man, I made sure I scrubbed down hard after every dance class after that. Good thing you only made me sign up for the six-week course."

"Every young man needs to know how to dance with a la—," Bruce began, then stopped himself, as he realized what he had been going to say.

"Or like one, right boss?"

"Hmm," Bruce responded, noncommittal. "It's very much a worthwhile skill, dancing. And isn't Cotillion coming up for you? Let's try a turn, please."

"Do we have room?"

"Wait. Let me move that table." He pushed the report-strewn table a few feet. "By the way, Dick. I reviewed the files for daily criminal activity," Bruce said, back in place. "Now," he said, spinning Dick gently. "Perfect."

Dick grinned.

"It seems there are quite a few mentions of Robin in the reports."

"Um, yes," Dick nodded as Bruce edged him backwards in the dance. "Supes needed my help."

"How so?" Bruce arched an eyebrow. "I thought I left you to study for mid-terms, perhaps spend some time with your friends."

"I did that, Bruce. But Clark needed me and—"

"Yes?" Bruce's mouth was drawn into a tight line.

"Superman's really, really great, he's strong and it's fun to fly with him."

Bruce's eyebrow went higher, and his grip got a little firmer as he turned his partner.

"But he's just not as smart as Batman."

Bruce's left hand and his jaw relaxed.

"He had to get me to show him every time he wanted to use the computer."

"Hmm."

"Do you know that he can't even run a perp list on the Bat Computer?"

"You don't say." Bruce's tone was impossibly dry. "I really must show him sometime."

Frank's song ended and 'Girl from Ipanema' poured into the room from the wall speaker. They both compensated for the tempo change with a slight alteration of step.

"Sometimes he thought I should go out with him, too."

"Because?"

"Well, he had a point. How would it look if it was only Batman with no Robin all of a sudden?"

"If I had wanted you to sacrifice your study time, I'd have brought you over here sooner."

"I didn't sacri—"

"It's just that I," Bruce turned him so hard Dick gasped at the suddenness. "I could've used your help, here, Dick."

"Well, that's different." They were both grinning, now.

"Did you get to spend some time with your friends?"

"A little. A bunch of us went to the movies. And out for malteds."

"Alfred mentioned something about that. He was pleased." Bruce smiled, his eyes a little distant. "He said he thought it was good for you. Let's try another turn, please."

Dick nodded.

"And isn't Cotillion coming up?"

"The spring dance? It's this weekend."

"Oh." Bruce froze, then looked down at him. "I'm sorry, Dick."

"Hey, it's the mission, right? Come on, Bruce. Don't stop now. This is the good part of the song."

"Did you have to cancel a date?"

"Well, kind of."

"Dick, I'm so sorry."

"Them's the breaks, right, Bruce?" Dick shrugged. He nudged Bruce with his knee to get him moving again. "It's not like you get to have a normal social life either…" Dick trailed off as Bruce's eyes widened and the grip on his hand became much too tight. "Oh. I didn't mean—I didn't…" Dick could feel his face flushing.

"Dick, I'm so sorry…." Bruce looked lost.

Believe me, Bruce. You're not the only one, Dick thought but didn't say.

Bruce's face—Dick had never, ever seen this look before and he never wanted to see it again. Shame didn't belong there, and the flush … were Bruce's cheeks flushing a little, too? This was completely new. And the most uncomfortable Dick'd felt since his last full physical. He compared the two in his mind. Worse, this was worse. Exponentially worse. He searched his brain for something, anything. Aloud he said, "Bruce, you think the only dance they'll do at this gig is the foxtrot? Maybe we should work on something else."

For a minute Bruce's mouth moved without saying anything, like a just-caught fish. But because of Dick, he got himself together. Bruce's jaw was tense, his mouth a thin line, and his hand was still gripping Dick's much too firmly, but at least his words were glib. "Let's try the Cha Cha Cha."

"Did my foxtrot pass muster, then?" Dick was only too glad to return to the present.

"If you can keep fighting your tendency to lead," Bruce said, lowering their hands to waist level as they both adjusted their foot position, "you'll do beautifully." He steered his partner across the newly cleared floor space. Ready? Slow, slow, quick quick, slow. And even if your foxtrot wasn't up to speed," he added, cocking his head toward the radio, "Papa Loves Mambo is much more amenable to something uptempo."

"Oh, Bruce knows his old music. Get with the times, Bruce."

"It's hardly that old, Dick," Bruce said. "Papa Loves Mambo is only about…" he didn't finish, clearly computing. "Well, I have danced to it many times before."

"If it's a Mambo, why are we doing the Cha Cha?"

"Do you know the Mambo?"

"Hey, star pupil here. We learned every dance," Dick laughed, executing a perfect turn. "The question is, do you?"

"That sounds like a challenge, Dick." Bruce said, tilting his head and raising an eyebrow. "Let me show you. Forward first, please," he said, leading Dick toward him. "Now back, and one-two-three," he said, working the two of them toward the door. "And up now, one-two-three…"

"Not bad for an old guy."

"I'll show you 'old guy.'" Bruce said, squeezing his hand for just a moment.

"Sturdy hold's good, but it must be absent strain or tension, Bruce."

"Mmm hmm."

"That's straight from Miss Mitzi."

"Song's almost over. Ready for the big finish?"

"You bet." Dick laughed as Bruce dipped him. "Come on, Bruce. I've seen you do better."

"Really?"

"Only every time I've ever seen you dance. You're not dancing with me like I'm—" Dick grinned, shrugging, "Like I'm a girl. Give it a little flourish."

Bruce nodded, contrite. The next dip was perfect. Dick threw—very gracefully—his arm up and they ended the song with Dick suspended by his waist, back arched up, hand almost brushing the floor, Bruce smiling down at him. Accompanied by the sound… of applause.

Frozen in place, Bruce and Dick both looked up and toward the direction of the sound.

On the balcony, bright red and blue in the Paris night, stood a goofily grinning, highly appreciative, Superman.


	5. Eavesdropping on the World's Finest

Chapter 5: Eavesdropping on the World's Finest

Frozen in place, Bruce and Dick both looked up toward the direction of the sound.

On the balcony, bright red and blue in the Paris night, stood a goofily grinning, highly appreciative… Superman.

"Clark," Bruce said, sighing like he had a migraine.

"Bruce," Superman's grin had never been bigger. "Dick," he said, nodding.

"Superman!" Dick said, as Bruce lifted him into a standing position. He ran to open the glass door.

"Good idea, Dick. Bring the dancing out onto the patio," Supes said, his voice filled with barely suppressed laughter. "It's a beautiful night."

"Hey, we're working here," Dick frowned, then laughed at himself. "I mean, really. We are."

"I see," Superman said, clapping his hand on Dick's back, nodding sagely while biting back his grin. "So that's what they're calling it these days?" He hugged Dick, lifting him off the ground for just a second. Dick could feel his high heels dangling from his toes.

"Watch the shoes," Bruce said.

"And they are very smart… pumps, I think Lois calls them. Latest Paris fashion?" Clark joked, carefully lowering Dick, a hand on his shoulder, the other on his hips. Slowly, watching as he did so, so that Dick could settle properly into the shoes. "You have very dainty ankles, Dick."

"When Superman's through with his one-liners, perhaps you'll bring him in off the veranda," Bruce said, sweeping toward the radio to turn the music down.

Dick rolled his eyes, pulling Superman into the sitting area. Back-kicking one leg up at a time, he yanked the shoes off by the pointy heels and tossed them, gently, but quickly—just getting it done before Bruce turned around—into a far corner.

"Dick," Superman said, faking a pout. "Does that mean I'm not going to get to dance with you?"

"Sorry, Supes." Dick put on his own sad-eyed moue. "My dance card's already full tonight." He punched the man of steel in the shoulder playfully.

Superman caught him in another quick hug, then gasped. "Dick, you smell like wine!" He crossed his arms over his chest and looked from Dick to Bruce in shock that was only partly good-humored, and completely scandalized.

"Finer things, Clark," Dick began.

"Surely," Bruce interrupted. "Surely, Superman didn't come all the way to Paris to regale us with super-acquired sensory information of which we are already aware." Bruce crossed his own arms, mimicking Superman's stance, daring him to say more. "Or did you need Dick's help with the Bat Computer?"

Superman's eyes opened a little wider at that. "Er, no, Bruce." Clark looked slightly chastised, but his discomfiture quickly turned into a playful smile. "Besides," he said, punching Dick gently in the arm before looking back to Bruce. "I'd hate for you to lose your dance partner."

Bruce sighed. "We're working on a case, Clark."

Clark nodded, face very, very serious. "The Mambo is a very important part of any decent crime investigation…"

Bruce's lips thinned as he pressed them together. "How are things in Gotham, Clark? Is there a problem?"

"Is there, Bruce?" Clark responded, a little more intense than usual.

"In Gotham." Bruce responded.

"But—but," Clark stammered. "But wine? Bruce!

Dick watched Bruce tilt his head, pretending to be absorbed in studying the nail on the index finger of his right hand. Waited.

"We are trying to thwart an international incident, Clark." Bruce said, his tone clipped and dry.

"But really, Bruce. Really," Clark stammered. "Wine? Bruce? He's not even of legal age yet. And—"

"Dick," Bruce said. "Why don't you go down to the lobby and get Clark a coke. That should be wholesome enough." He turned steely blue eyes on Superman. "And I'm sure he could use one. Couldn't you, Clark?"

"I'm okay," Clark said.

"He's okay," Dick said, not wanting to miss any of the riveting discussion that seemed to be revolving around himself and his maturity status.

"Flying all the way across the Atlantic, I'm sure you could use some refreshment. Dick will run and get one for you." Bruce was almost glaring now.

Clark shrugged, shaking his head. "Sure, Bruce."

Dick knew when they were trying to get rid of him. When Bruce, at least, was trying to get rid of him. Clark never did. "Sure," he said, echoing Superman. But he slipped on his penny loafers as slowly as possible. "I might not even have to go all the way down to the lobby. There's a machine on the next floor. They'll even be cold. I'll be right back with three."

"Make that two," Bruce said, nonplussed. "And Clark," he said, turning his attention back to Superman, "he had part of a glass of wine. In Paris. With me. It's all right."

Clark did not look entirely convinced.

"So I'll ask you again, Clark. What's going on, in Gotham?" Bruce said. "Is there a problem?"

Clark waved his hand at the Paris sky, vaguely pointing towards North America. "Gotham's fine, Bruce. I left it in Batgirl's capable hands. I just have to go off world for a day or two."

"You got any change, Bruce?" Dick interrupted, digging in his own pocket.

Not taking his eyes from Superman, Bruce lobbed Dick his wallet. "Off world?"

Fist flashing out, Dick caught the Hermes embossed square of leather handily, making Superman reward him with a smile at him before answering Bruce.

"Resolve a little problem."

At Bruce's raised eyebrow, Clark held out a hand in the stand down motion. "There's nothing you can do, Bruce. I'll take care of it."

"Really a job for Superman, then?" Bruce said dryly.

"We can't all be international men of mystery like Batman and Robin, Bruce."

Dick grinned at that, thumbing through Bruce's wallet. Some bills, a few business cards; a photo—his last school photo, he realized, surprised; some scribbled phone numbers and notes in Bruce's distinct penmanship… and no coins. "No change, Bruce."

"There's some on my bedside table, then."

Dick checked Bruce's room, taking his time. Spying on Bruce and Clark a little from the bedroom, really, if he was honest with himself. He had a right to know, he rationalized, even as he felt a little guilty for rationalizing. Spying was beneath him. But this was so interesting, these were his partners and he was here on the mission. Just because he was younger than them was no reason to—he hovered at the bedroom door, listening. Superman had lowered his voice, and Dick had to work to hear the words.

"As long as I'm here, Bruce, I really want to mention something," Clark began, ducking his head a little. "Whatever happened between the two of you…"

Bruce's head whipped back to the bedroom door. Dick knew he must not be visible, because as quickly as he could, Bruce spit out, in an angry whisper, "It's not your concern, Clark." He looked back again, toward his room. "Dick?" he called.

Dick dodged into the bathroom that connected the suite's two bedrooms. Shouting from there he yelled, "Just a minute, Bruce!" He flushed the toilet, sure they could hear it in the sitting area. When he darted back into Bruce's room, Bruce had sunk down on the couch, and Superman was pacing back and forth in front of him.

"—he didn't tell you about it, did he?"

"Please. Dick takes being your partner very, very seriously Bruce. He'd never break a confidence. You know that. I—" Clark hesitated. "Judging from how upset he was, though…" he swiped a hand through his hair. "Maybe you should talk to him about… whatever it was that happened."

Dick jogged into the bathroom again to run some water, loudly. He left it running and went back to his post at the bedroom door, watching Clark wave his arms a little at Bruce from the seat he'd taken opposite him.

"And why have you got him in women's heels? You're not going to dress him up again, are you?"

"I need him to play the part of my niece, Clark."

"Oh, Bruce." Clark sighed, putting his head in his hands. "You can't. He rubbed his large hand down from his forehead to his chin.

"What?"

"You can't, Bruce. He's too old." Clark looked at Bruce like he was questioning his very sanity. And Dick wanted to hug him right now, really, really badly. "He's past that. All you'll end up doing is making people wonder why you have a boy dressed up as a girl."

"I believe you may be underestimating –"

Clark threw up his hands.

"Dick!" Bruce called, louder than before.

"Yes?" Dick answered, sure his voice sounded guilty. He turned off the running water.

"How's that search for change coming along?" He was starting to get suspicious.

"Oh!" Dick said, trying for casual nonchalance. "Fine! I found some!"

"Good to hear," Bruce responded, in the tone that Dick knew meant business.

"Be right back," he said over his shoulder as he quickly crossed the sitting room, not looking at either one of them, lest they see the guilt on his face. The hotel door slammed behind him as Dick darted out, change jingling. Outside, in the hallway, he pressed his ear to the door, but he couldn't hear a thing, darn it. He headed downstairs on his mission.

Beverages acquired, and indeed chilled, he slowly opened the hotel room door.

"I'm all ears." Bruce was saying, folding his arms behind his head as he leaned back into the couch. "Tiger," he finished, his eyes full of challenge.

Dick's eyes widened, the three green glass bottles clanking against each other as he fell into the couch next to Bruce. "Whoa!" he said, some of the soda bubbling over the top of the bottles.

"I said I didn't want a cola," Bruce said as Dick handed him one.

"Got you one anyway, B.," Dick said, passing a coke to Superman, who grinned back at him and took a big swig.

"Thanks, Dick."

"Anytime, Clark." Dick clinked his bottle to Superman's, then Bruce's, even though Bruce had already placed his on the coffee table. "So what's up, guys?"

Superman looked at Bruce, watching him as he lifted the bottle to his lips.

"What, guys?" Dick narrowed his eyes and looked at each of them in turn, suspicious.

"It's all right," Bruce said, giving in. "You may continue."

"She said it was about the—something called 'The Maiden's Sacrifice.'"

Bruce nodded. "It's a missing necklace. An antiquity."

"She said you'd been asking around."

Bruce nodded.

"And that the word on the street is that the thing may now be in the hands of someone called 'The Doctor'."

"Hmm." Bruce nodded. "I thought as much. One of my fellow ambassadors on this tour."

"Anything else? Did she say how she came by this information?"

Clark shook his head, draining the rest of his Coca-Cola in one swig. "She did say, that if you wanted a hand on the case, she'd come to Paris."

"Batgirl might come?" Dick said, so excited that his voice squeaked a little with the last syllable.

"Settle down, Dick," Clark teased, grinning at him with a lopsided smile.

"No one's coming, Dick," Bruce shook his head. "We're lone rangers on this one."

"Except—" Dick said, still a little mortified over his voice cracking and a little annoyed at Bruce's choice of words.

"Lucky for you, then," Clark interrupted, winking at Dick.

"What?" Bruce said, obviously distracted, already running scenarios in his head. Plotting his next move with the Doctor, whoever that was.

"That you've got such a good partner," Clark tilted his head towards Dick.

Bruce came back to the present long enough to tousle Dick's hair and smile at him. Standing, probably to hurry Superman out. Dick could tell he was already thinking about tomorrow. Aloud he said, "True."

"He certainly did a great job in Gotham with me," Superman said, following Bruce's lead and heading toward the balcony.

Blushing a little, Dick ran to open the glass door for him, and they all stepped out into the crisp spring evening. Below them, the Paris streets sparkled with city lights. Above, a million stars sparkled in the dark, cloudless sky. It was a beautiful night.

"You're a lucky man, Batman," Superman said, and his tone was the one he used when he wanted to say something very, very important.

"I couldn't ask for a better partner," Bruce said.

"I could use his help now, as a matter of fact," Superman said, chucking Dick's chin. "Love to take him off world with me, right now."

"I know you would," Bruce said mildly. "And I'm sure he would be of excellent service. Sadly, he's needed here."

Dick felt his face color at the attention. Batman and Superman simultaneously beaming at him was a little too much to take. As Superman wrapped an arm around his shoulders in a goodbye clasp, he searched for something to say that might change the subject. "So if it wasn't Batgirl," he wished it was Batgirl, "who told you about the Doctor, Supes?" He took a gulp of his Coca-Cola, feeling the sweet, peppery carbonated bubbles slide across his tongue and down his throat.

"Gotham's best jewel thief, of course. The Catwoman."

Dick choked on his soda.

"Are you alright, Dick?" Bruce said, turning to him, solicitous.

Dick nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"They are fizzier here," Clark offered helpfully. "Bubbles went up your nose?"

Dick made the 'okay' sign with his fingers, still coughing a little.

Bruce patted Dick's back, absently. "That's the second time this evening, actually. It's the reason he had any wine at all." He sighed. "This news about the Doctor is… helpful. Thank you, Clark. We are obliged."

"I'm glad," Superman said, shaking Bruce's outstretched hand.

"You will let us know when you return to earth?"

"I will," Clark agreed, giving Dick a last, manly hug. "Don't drink too much wine, Dick."

"Okay, Supes."

Superman stepped to the edge of the balcony, poised for take-off.

Dick watched the man leap into the sky.

"And better watch out for those Coca-Colas, too," Superman called as he surged upwards, his words and smile fading in the Paris night as he glided into the stratosphere.


	6. Declarations

Dick woke to Bruce's, "Rise and shine!" as he opened the drapes, letting sunshine spill through the window and across Dick's bed.

Squinting at the bright light, Dick pulled his pillow over his head. "Bruce!" It was much earlier than he would've liked, under normal circumstances. Swimming up from sleep, he slowly adjusted to his new surroundings: a sunny hotel room, a foreign mission, the smell of coffee in the next room.

Donning his robe, he wandered out to see Bruce—already fully dressed, poring over a map. More maps, notes, his utility belt and today's newspaper were strewn around a tray of croissants, coffee and o.j. on the coffee table in front of him.

"Good morning, Dick." Bruce's voice was the kind of cheery and bright that only comes from an early riser who's been up for hours. "Sleep well?"

Dick yawned, sinking beside him on the loveseat. "Yeah. Morning. What's up?" he said, reaching toward the breakfast options.

"Setting out our plans for the day."

Dick picked up the coffeepot and poured himself a cup.

"Well, I'm glad room service brought two cups." Bruce looked at him disapprovingly. "When did this begin?"

"Huh?" Dick followed Bruce's eyes to the coffee. "Oh, I don't know. A while, I guess. You're usually already in the study when I get down." He added several cubes of sugar and some cream. He shrugged. "Alfred said it was okay."

"Probably because it's mostly milk," Bruce wrinkled his mouth disdainfully. "I do not know where you learned to ruin—"

"Bruce," Dick sighed, china cup frozen at his lips, just about to take a sip. "You always want it both ways, you know that?"

"I have no idea what you are referring—"

"First you don't want me to have coffee, then it's like I'm not having coffee the right way."

Bruce's lip quirked up at the corner for that. "Hmm."

Dick drank his coffee. It was delicious.

"Getting back to the matter at hand, Dick, we've got quite a day in front of us."

"Oh?"

"Let's lay out our plan of action, shall we?" We have thirty-six hours to pull this off. We're getting down to the wire."

Dick brought his feet up, folding them under himself and leaned back on the couch's armrest, coffee cup precariously balanced on his chest. "Lay it on me, Boss."

"I've got a big day planned."

"Shadowing this… this doctor?"

"For at least a portion of the day."

"What's the story on him, anyway?"

"He's Lorena's father. He's the reason I've befriended young Miss Lorena. Dr. Bernard arrived in France ten years ago from Brazil. He runs a small private hospital on the outskirts of the city."

"Private hospital?"

"L'hôpital Saint Adelaide caters to certain wealthy society members. The place has a high level of security, but from what I've been able to discover," Bruce said, pouring himself some orange juice, "it's primary cover operation is that of an asylum of some kind, probably particularly for those commit themselves voluntarily, to lose weight."

Just to see if he could do it. Dick tried to take a sip of coffee without raising his cup, but instead lowering his chin to the coffee. It worked, he congratulated himself. "But how is he involved in the jewel heist?"

"He was not in Gotham when the robbery occurred, However, I believe an operative has since passed it off to him."

Dick nodded.

"The doctor is involved with the exhibition by virtue of his standing as a leading local figure."

"But he's not on the up an up?" Dick tried to the same thing as before with his cup, but the coffee level had gotten too low. He took it off of his chest.

"Hardly. My investigation leads me to believe that his true nature is much more nefarious in character than that of the usual medical practitioner."

"Really? What you got, Boss?"

"I believe," Bruce said, looking at him with narrowed, steely eyes, "that the Good Doctor is in fact Professor Herman Gutrig, former Nazi war criminal.

Dick sat up, only just barely keeping his coffee from sloshing over his robe. "What? Nazis?"

"I believe so." Bruce said grimly. "A particularly despicable Nazi scientist, known for the depravity of his experiments."

"Gosh, Bruce." Dick said, putting down his cup. "This is big."

"Indeed it is."

"But how," Dick reached for a croissant. "What, I mean, does he want with the Reds?"

"Good point, Dick. Communism is not Fascism. There's butter and jam there too, you know." Bruce said. "Look under the map closest to my utility belt."

Dick found it and buttered his croissant with gusto. He was hungrier than he'd thought.

"But be that as it may," Bruce continued, "I believe the Doctor has been promised an important role in the new communist regime and funding for some… new, and undoubtedly repugnant experiments, after the communists take over. And we know the Reds want Brazil."

"Well, it borders on almost every country in South America," Dick said, taking a huge bite of croissant.

"Good work, Dick! It would certainly be a feather in their cap."

Dick pictured what a communist hat would look like and poured himself some orange juice.

"Can you name the countries in South America not bordering Brazil?" Bruce asked.

Dick pretended to think about it. Gulping some juice to hurry and wash the bread down, he triumphantly answered. "Chile and Ecuador, right?"

"On the money, Dick!" Bruce was pleased.

Dick congratulated himself. "So the Doctor has the necklace," he mused.

"Perhaps," Bruce said.

"Catwoman seems to think so," Dick said, raising an eyebrow.

"Mm hmm," Bruce nodded, pouring himself some fresh coffee.

"Then… what next? Do we take him down?"

"I'm not sure it's quite as easy as that, Dick. First of all, the man is not working alone. He's got at least one more member of the antiquities entourage as co-conspirator. Possibly more."

"Do you know who?"

"Our goal this morning is to narrow down the suspects The doctor's wife, Madame DuMarier, Lenora's mother, is obviously involved. Several other members of the group associated with the museum tour are possible suspects. In addition, the Doctor has surrounded himself with bodyguards, and there is no way to know where he is keeping the necklace."

"While he's waiting to sell it, right?"

"Correct, Dick."

"So what's next?"

"Fulfilling my promise to your principal."

"What?"

Bruce pointed to the map of Paris. "I promised him, when I asked for your excused absence, that I'd further your classical education. So it's off to the Louvre."

"Oh, Bruce. Come on!"

"You don't like sightseeing?"

"Well, sure I do, Bruce. It's just that—you know," Dick tried. "It sounds silly to go sightseeing when the fate of the free world is—"

"Ah, but Dick," Bruce nodded. "I believe we're going to be able to kill two birds with one stone, as it were."

"Well, I guess that'd be okay then," Dick said, slightly doubtful. He started on another croissant.

"It's going to be our cover, Dick. The ambassadors connected with the museum tour will be in evidence. It will give us ample opportunity to observe the main players in this little drama. I believe something important is going down this afternoon."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Something very important. A meeting. Of Reds."

"Oh!"

"We're going to infiltrate it."

Dick fell back happily against the arm of the couch. He knew it couldn't just be the coffee that was making his heart pound with excitement.

Bruce looked at his watch. "If we're to meet the entourage, we'll need to be out of the hotel in an hour."

"Okay, Bruce." Dick sat up halfway and noticed Bruce staring toward the corner of the room and the heels he'd discarded last night. "I don't have to go as a girl, do I?" he asked, suspicion creeping into his question.

"Mmm. Well, I suppose you could if you'd like," Bruce teased, hand snaking out to tickle Dick's bare foot.

"Stop it! Stop it, Bruce!" Dick laughed, kicking out to snatch his foot away.

Bruce held up his hands in surrender. "But you're going to play the role of my niece, and she isn't due in Paris until tonight. So if you are dying to dress as a girl," Bruce winked at him. "You'll have to be yet another young lady."

"Gosh, Bruce." Dick rolled his eyes. "Guess I'll have to pass."

"But you also had probably better not go as Dick Grayson," Bruce said. "Think you can you pull that off?"

"I am a master of disguise, Bruce," Dick folded his arms across his chest.

Speaking of disguise…" Bruce said, looking him up and down thoughtfully. "I may need to get your gown taken out a bit."

"Bruce!"

"Yes?"

"I don't want to talk about that right now."

"Really?"

"And I heard Superman last night."

"Oh did you? I am disappointed to hear you were eavesdropping, Dick. That's hardly worthy—"

"I wasn't exactly eavesdropping, Bruce. And it was about me."

Bruce folded his own arms across his chest.

"Superman doesn't think I should."

"And is Superman your partner?" Bruce said, narrowing his eyes and staring Dick down.

Dick buried his face in his hands. "I just don't want to, Bruce." He knew he sounded childish. Petulant. He didn't care.

"Dick," Bruce said.

Dick didn't raise his head, instead keeping his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. Softly, he felt Bruce's finger on his chin, gently lifting his head. He opened his eyes, still feeling sullen.

"You have a brave and generous spirit, Dick," Bruce tilted his own head, thoughtfully. "Hmm." He slowly ran his finger against Dick's chin. "Someday soon you'll be shaving every day." He sighed. "It's true that you are growing up. And," he added, "you are a warrior and a hero. You are—" He stopped, thinking. "You do know that Achilles himself, the best, bravest warrior in Greece, for a time passed himself off as a girl."

Dick shrugged.

"You do know that his mother, hoping to save him from war, dressed him as a girl? You do know that, Dick. Correct?"

Dick inclined his head.

Bruce lifted it up again."Do you know what proved to be his undoing? Why Achilles' true nature came through?"

"The weapons," Dick said, his voice just a whisper.

"His courage, Dick. His courage. When he saw the weapons, brought in to find the true warrior among the maidens, he alone moved forward to inspect those perfectly forged swords and shields." Bruce's hand stilled. "Those weapons symbolized courage, and Achilles was its avatar."

Dick looked up into Bruce's eyes, dark and blue.

"When he saw the tools of his trade—his true calling, as the best warrior in Greece—as its perfect hero…" Bruce said, his voice dreamy and far-away, "his courage was impossible to hide."

Dick nodded, feeling his face move in Bruce's hand.

"It's like that with you, Dick," Bruce said, his thumb softly sweeping the line of Dick's jaw. "You will never be anything but the best. No matter what outer guise you employ. No matter what costume you wear. You will," he said, his voice husky with pride, "always be a hero."

"Oh, Bruce." Dick turned his head to the side, embarrassed.

Bruce just looked at him for a moment. "And speaking of costumes, you must have grown a foot or two in the last two weeks."

"Yeah. I mean yes. Alfred had to let out the hem in my tuxedo pants. Two inches.

"So he mentioned. Before you dress, let's take a few measurements. Stand please." Bruce reached into his utility belt and pulled out a tape measure.

Reluctantly, Dick stood.

"It's the cold, metal kind. Sorry…" Bruce pushed away the robe to wrap the tape around Dick's waist.

"Bruce, that tickles!" Dick said, pushing his hands away with a choked laugh.

"Hmm. At least you're smiling." Bruce said, letting the tap roll up on itself with a snap. He made note of a Dick's measurement on an index card, then looked at Dick brightly. "Shower and dress, young man. Then put on your mustache. We have work to do."


	7. A Discovery

"Sure thing, B," Dick said, hopping off of the couch. "Hey, let's have a little music, okay?"

Bruce made a noncommittal noise, but didn't look up from his paperwork.

Dick fiddled with the radio. Static and foreign voices and then… the dial found something familiar. "Stagger Lee".

Dick bobbed his shoulders to the tune, sang along for a few bars of the "Go, Stagger Lee" chorus.

"That's not a very wholesome song, Dick."

Dick grinned, rolled his eyes, changed the station and found "Peppermint Twist." He headed for the shower.

"Dick," Bruce said sharply as Dick passed him.

"Yeah?" He stopped, turned.

Bruce put his pen down. "Come here, please?"

Dick stepped closer to where Bruce was sitting on the edge of the small sofa. "Yes?"

"Let me see your thigh."

"What?"

"Let me see your thigh, please?" Bruce reached out, pushing aside the fabric of Dick's terrycloth robe to run his hand up Dick's left leg, toward a large, ugly bruise, mottled greens and purples blooming out from just under the edge of the boxers he'd slept in. Bruce looked up at Dick, question in his eyes.

"Oh." Dick shrugged. "Didn't you see it a minute ago?"

"Wasn't at eye level. And I was focused on a different set of data," Bruce said, defensive. "And your comfort."

"Yeah, Bruce." Dick rolled his eyes. "You're a real softie."

Bruce didn't respond, testing the greenish skin on the outer edges of the contusion, thoughtful, professional. Like they were in the cave after patrol, doing damage inventory.

"Bruce, it's no big deal."

Bruce slipped a finger under the hem of the blue-striped cotton boxers, pushing them up for a better look.

"Come on, Bruce." Dick sighed, put-upon. "My legs aren't going to be on display for this thing, are they?" He started to take a step back.

Bruce's other hand shot out to hold him in place, gripping his right leg just above the knee while he continued his appraisal. On the radio, a disc jockey spoke, then a new song, loud in the silence of the room, came through the speaker. "Fly Me to the Moon." In French. The bruise was purple at its center, blood pooled under the surface, a two-inch cut crowning the swollen surface. Bruce poked it.

"Ow, Bruce!"

"What's this from?"

"What does it look like? I took a hit."

"A particularly nasty hit, wasn't it?"

"Well I think it'll keep me out of any beauty contests for a week or two, yeah. It doesn't matter, Bru—"

"How did you get this?"

"How do you think?" Dick could hear a touch of sarcasm creeping into his voice. He tried to quell it. Bruce was just being himself, after all. "Patrol. A couple of nights ago."

"I thought you were with Superman." Bruce put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed once, then slowly swept his hand down Dick's side, from armpit to waist, feeling for damage. Watching Dick's face.

Dick knew he must have reacted, because Bruce rucked up his white T-shirt to look at the skin underneath, where another mark lurked. Bruce make a clucking sound of dismay, then pushed the boxers' elastic waistband down far enough to see the shape of this blemish, just at and above Dick's right hipbone.

"That one," Bruce's voice was quiet, dangerously low, "looks like a handprint."

"Look, Bruce—"

Bruce's eyes narrowed.

"He can't keep me from getting bruised, B. Especially in shorts. It's a hazard of the—I don't know, business. Costume. You know that, boss."

"Hmm." Bruce lowered the waistband an inch further, enough to trace the pale finger shapes. "Turn, please."

"Bruce!" Dick pushed his hand away. "Leave it alone."

Bruce steered Dick into a quarter turn himself, pulling the robe further aside to look more closely. His hand ghosted over the gray remnants of the—well, it was a handprint, after all—pressing around Dick's side to where the imprints of fingertips ended, near the bowl of his left hip.

Dick was annoyed, but wriggled a little, involuntary. "Bruce, that tickles!"

Bruce changed his touch, kneading the mark, thoughtful. Tilted his head, blue eyes boring into Dick's own.

Dick frowned back.

"Superman."

It wasn't a question, but Dick felt protective. "Who do you think, Bruce?"

"I see." Bruce's lips thinned.

"I hope so!"

"Care to elaborate?"

"On what?" Dick pointed to his thigh, exasperated. "Lex Luthor."

Bruce's eyebrow went higher, his eyes wider. "Do tell."

"Some kind of… weird new projectile he was trying out."

"I see." Bruce said again, his tone deadly. "A bullet."

"Not really, Bruce. A new kind of plastic alloy." He hesitated. "I think. I didn't finish the analysis yet."

"You didn't." Bruce said, his grip on Dick's waist getting tenser, harder. "Lex Luthor is using you for target practice, Superman is letting him, and you're the one bringing the evidence home to analyze," Bruce snapped. "Please tell me what's wrong with this scenario."

"Superman couldn't, okay!"

"Kryptonite." Bruce's voice was quiet but furious. And he was going to leave a bruise of his own if he didn't let go. "So you went to Metropolis?"

"Yeah, Bruce."

"Yes, please," Bruce corrected.

"Yes, Bruce." Dick shimmied his hips, loosening Bruce's grip on him. "For like, an hour. Once."

"And took a Kryptonite bullet for Superman."

Dick shrugged. "He'd do the same for me, Bru—"

"And this?" Bruce said, squeezing the handprint again before letting go.

"You know."

"Do I?"

"Yes!"

"Tell me more, Dick."

"To save me!" Dick crossed his arms, huffing. "Combat situation, Bruce."

"Does the Man of Steel no longer know his own strength?"

Dick just glared at him.

"Turn around." It was that voice, and Dick hated when Bruce used it against him this way, but he found himself turning all the same. His back to Bruce, he could see the lounge chairs on the terrace, buildings and trees and morning sunshine spilling across Paris. The radio station blared a commercial for Gitanes. "Like this?" Dick spat out, waiting. "You need to get a grip on—''

"On what?" Bruce said, intense, quiet, bitter. In one fluid motion, he stood, pulling the robe from Dick's shoulders, skinning it down his arms.

"What are you doing?" Dick snapped.

Bruce tossed the robe aside.

"Bruce, you have really, really got to get a workout in."

"Do I?"

"Yes!" He felt hands under the waistband of his boxers, yanking them lower. "You're strung—" A hand on his t-shirt, pushing it higher. "Strung way too tight, Bruce." The air on suddenly exposed skin, still warm from sleep, made him shiver. Dick fought to steady his voice, be himself. "How long has it been since you spent a little time with the punching bag, Bruce?"

Bruce found the matching mark on the other side of his lower back. He squeezed it, too hard.

"Ouch, Bruce!"

"I've never known Clark to bruise you before, Dick." Slowly, Bruce's fingers lined up with the pattern of the bruise, matching his own hand to the print Superman had left behind. Thumb pressing into lower back, fingers splayed as they curved around to grasp Dick's hips. First on the right side, then on the left, until Bruce was holding him, just as Superman had.

"I don't get the big deal about—"

Bruce, hands still in place, yanked him backwards, hard.

Dick landed with an 'oof' against Bruce's collarbone. He could smell Bruce's aftershave, feel the starched cotton of the Brooks Brothers shirt, rough against the bared skin of his back.

"Was it like this, Dick?" Bruce's voice was a whisper in his ear, cold and speculative.

"Bruce!" Dick gasped. Pushing away, he snatched his robe from the couch and slid into it, pulling the two sides close around him, covering. "I think he was just… was in a hurry." Dick knotted the robe's sash. "And shouldn't we be? Don't we have someplace we need to be?"

Bruce set his shoulders, then his jaw, tense. He sat back down on the couch. "I'm sure we'll manage."

Dick tried to process the tone. "My legs aren't going to show in this dress, right?"

"What?" Bruce looked scandalized. "It's a Dior, Dick. Of course not. Very tasteful." He reached out to flip back a corner of terrycloth. Poked Dick's thigh one more time for emphasis. "As long as your back and shoulders are unmarked…"

Dick rolled his eyes. "Fine then, B. Are we done here?"

"Hmm." Bruce slid his palm down the length of Dick's thigh, to his knee, then back up again, pushing the light hairs there against the grain.

"Bruce." Dick took a calming breath and bit his lip, squeezing his eyes closed as he wrapped his hand around Bruce's wrist, lifting Bruce's palm from where it was placed on his inner thigh. "You can't just go… doing that."

"Oh." And suddenly, it was just Bruce again. Bruce, who looked a bit odd but gave Dick his space, taking his hands away.

Dick closed his robe again. Stepped back. "Bruce, it's just that…"

"No, you're right," Bruce said, hurt.

Dick was embarrassed, angry at himself for making Bruce uncomfortable.

"I was only thinking of the mission." Bruce reached for something under the stacks of maps, brusque. "You will, I think, need to shave your legs."

"Oh no, Bruce."

"I'm afraid so," Bruce nodded. "It's not that you have much hair there, or anywhere, really—"

He stopped talking because of Dick's glare. And held up a small box. A small pink box. "I got this for y—" he stopped, corrected himself. "The occasion."

"Oh B, I don't want to…"

"It works with the currents here," Bruce continued, opening the case to display a small, ivory-colored electric razor. The thing was disc-shaped, round except for the one edge where the blades cut across the circle. He lifted it from its box. "It's fashioned to fit comfortably."

Decorated with gold curlicues and a pink jewel in the center, Dick felt his stomach flip. Lady Schick. "Oh, no Bruce."

"Mmm." Bruce flipped the thing over in his hand, tiny in his large palm.

"My legs will be hidden—"

"You need to play the part…"

"Nobody will know if I haven't shaved my legs, Bruce."

"You won't let anyone touch them, then?" Bruce put the thing back in its box, closing it with a loud snap.

"Anyone but you?"

"Hmph." Bruce snorted, reaching over to drop the pink case into the pocket of Dick's robe. Folding his arms, he leaned back on the couch. "Each piece is part of the whole when one is undercover, Dick. You know that." Adversarial, daring Dick to argue further. "Humor me. Your legs. The fuzz under your arms."

The song on the radio changed. Johnny Mathis singing some creepy song about love. Dick searched for patience.

"Maybe you can use it on your face, too. For these daily tonsorial needs you seem to have suddenly begun to develop.

"Bruce!" Dick fought the whine he could hear in his own voice. "I am shaving -…more often."

Bruce smiled, a little too bright and condescending. "Daily, weekly, monthly. It's fine, Dick. You're a virile young man. But do shave something besides your face before this evening." Bruce picked up his pen again, began filling an index card with small, meticulous notes.

"Fine," Dick snapped, whirling out of the room. He didn't miss the self-satisfied little crinkles that played for a moment around Bruce's eyes, even though the man didn't look up from his paperwork.


	8. The Maiden's Sacrifice

The Louvre was everything Dick had imagined it would be, only bigger and more imposing: paintings and sculptures and marble and tile and tall ceilings that went on forever. The Venus de Milo; stunning—and nude—odalisque after odalisque; the Mona Lisa; statues by Michelangelo; oils by the great masters. The buzzing drone of hundreds of visitors, speaking any one of a dozen different languages, echoed from every polished, cavernous surface. In corduroy jacket, dress shirt, khakis and tie, a camera slung around his neck, museum brochure in hand, Dave Mathews was every inch the tourist.

Winged Victory greeted him as he rounded the Victory of Samothrace staircase, maintaining a ten to fifteen-yard distance behind the party he shadowed. The group he spied on numbered a dozen, various dignitaries and one or two young people. The group paused, so Dick paused as well.

He lingered near the statue's placard, registering some of the words as he waited near the headless statue. A docent passed, leading a tour, and the words drifted down toward him. "…the accidental mutilation of this statue turned it into a timeless icon of Western art — "a masterpiece of destiny, according to…" the tour guide's voice trailed away as the tourists moved onward.

Ahead, Bruce made small talk with the man that had to be Dr. Bernard. Dr. Bernard looked to be in his mid- to late-fifties, just an inch or so shorter than Bruce, so about 6 feet tall, salt and pepper hair, imposing and handsome but for an old, livid scar that ripped down one side of his face, temple to jowl.

Dick took a few pictures—of art, and when he could, of the suspects, monkeyed with his Nikon, marveled at the Tomb of the Seneschal of Burgundy, watched as Bruce and the Doctor were interrupted when the teenager from the garden party—Lorena—joined them, taking Bruce's arm, telling him something that made Bruce laugh politely and Dr. Bernard narrow his eyes at the girl, then at Bruce. When the ambassadors moved on to the next gallery, the Doctor took Lorena's shoulder and steered her away from the rest of the ambassadors, down the dark corridor toward the Richelieu wing.

Dick followed them discretely around a corner, then paused, pretending to read the inscription under a painting of Alexander entering Babylon, eavesdropping. Father and daughter argued, fast and whispered, not in English. In Portuguese. By the time Dick casually drifted close enough to try to decipher the words, Lorena had stormed away.

The next set of galleries marked the beginning of the ancient antiquities. Dick took in Isis nursing Horus and was mesmerized by the Great Sphinx of Tanis. But the people he followed were less inclined to take in Egyptian dynasties, and impatient to see their own exhibit in its new temporary Parisian home.

The Treasures of the Amazon were indeed a sight to behold. Green—whether sparkling emeralds or idols inlaid with jade—was the overwhelming color of the gallery. Green-eyed jaguars and jade fertility gods, green, gold and ebony monsters and madonnas filled case after case of antiquities. Thrones, golden flutes, pitchers, mosaics made of precious stone blinded the viewer with their splendor. Precious gems, gold and silver adornments, breastplates, masks, figural vessels and weapons filled every display case.

Dick tore his eyes away from a wicked-looking jewel-encrusted ceremonial bloodletting dagger to do a quick inventory of the people in the gallery. Madame DuMarier, Lorena's mother and Dr. Bernard's wife, who'd kept her first husband's last name and significant wealth, was on Bruce's arm as they entered the room. Bruce was regaling her with a joke about a policeman and an avant-garde art collector. His French was perfect, and even though he purposefully flubbed the final line, her lilting laugh echoed in the large marble room. She was a tall, slender woman in her forties, smartly dressed in Chanel, her dark hair swept into a sophisticated chignon. Dr. Bernard stood a few feet away, near a temple replica, speaking with a curator. Dominic Di Medici, a light-haired Italian baron, inspected an enormous jade casket at Dick's eleven o'clock. Lorena and her brother—Alessandro DuMarier, Dick remembered, as he remembered the baron, too, from Bruce's briefing in the taxi from the hotel—a young man in his early twenties, dark and slim and suave, like his mother and sister, whispered with each other near a particularly graphic fertility idol. A couple of bruisers who had to be bodyguards milled about, uninterested in anything except keeping a watchful eye on the few tourists and sightseers that mingled in with the group of diplomats.

In the center of the room, a large case protected the one artifact that no longer needed protection, the highlight of the exhibit, the antiquity that had already been pilfered and replaced with a well-executed paste replica. Under gleaming glass, shimmering with an unearthly green glow, the necklace sparkled: huge, perfect-looking emeralds chained together with intricate, delicate strands of gold. "The Maiden's Sacrifice" read the placard on the glass. Dick moved forward to take in more of the text.

In one of the great archeological finds of the twentieth century, Sir Edmond Blakely translated an ancient South American text to discover a mysterious ritual, involving the selection, every seven years, of one perfect girl child. This girl was placed in the royal court, enjoying every luxury available and training in all of the great arts. Seven years later, a great feast was held, lasting for days. At the climax of the festivities, the chosen young woman was anointed with sacred oils, and naked, accompanied only by high priests, she climbed a sacred mountain overlooking a body of water referred to as 'The Queen's Bath". Atop a cliff, the woman was adorned in the finest jewelry, carefully fashioned by the most skillful artisans, over the course of the seven previous years. Necklaces, bracelets, anklets, earrings, rings, belts, golden girdles, stones and chains all draped her nude form, covering and weighting her. She was then 'given to the gods', drowned in the deep waters below…

"The locals knew where it was," a rich Italian voice beside him interrupted Dick's perusal of the brutal ritual. He turned, annoyed with himself that he'd been so intent on the story that he'd missed Baron Di Medici's approach.

"What?"

The baron's full head of yellow hair swept back from a widow's peak in the middle of his forehead. The peak, combined with his neatly trimmed Van Dyke, made Dick think of a blond Satan. Though impeccably dressed, from his Italian loafers to his Versace suit, the man had just a slight air of oiliness about him. The baron made a production of flourishing, then donning, a pair of reading glasses and peered closely at the inscription on the case. "The locals knew where it was all along," he said.

"Where what was?"

"The Queen's Bath." The baron tapped on the case's placard. "Secret place. They didn't want to tell Sir Edmund Blakely, but they knew where it was. They'd known for centuries."

Lorena's brother rounded the other side of the necklace display. His beautifully-accented Portuguese voice laced with something that might have been sarcasm, Alessandro stated, as though reciting a worn out script. "But he finally found it."

The baron nodded, winking at Alessandro, and turning a blindingly white smile on Dick. "You know why they didn't want to tell him?"

"Sure," Dick grinned back. "I'll bite."

"Well," the man said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "They were still using it."

"What?"

"Yes," said Alessandro, nodding as he folded his arms, taking in Dick's reaction to the story

"Yes." The baron stroked his beard, thoughtful, but Dick had the strong feeling that this was all part of the act, part of a favorite anecdote. "Blakely gets there, and in that water? The 'Queen's Bath'?" he continued.

"Uh huh."

"Piles and piles and piles of jewels," Baron Di Medici said.

Alessandro, handsome face filled with awe and dark almond eyes wide, gestured with finger-splayed hands, gracefully sculpting something imaginary and waist-high in front of himself.

Bruce was watching the three of them now, surreptitiously, from across the room, while Madame DuMarier led him amongst the displays. Bruce raised an eyebrow. Dick nodded, both at Bruce and at the storyteller.

"And not just piles of jewels," the Italian said, emphasizing his point with a finger on Dick's shoulder. "Something else that wouldn't—I know this because I'm a bit of an armchair archeologist myself," he said and smiled, self-conscious, perhaps. "Something that wouldn't still be there, in green jungle waters of the Amazon. Unless it was very recent." He waited, obviously anxious to deliver his punch line.

"Okay."

"Not just jewels."

"I'm ready," Dick prodded.

"Bones," the baron said, his voice low and dramatic. "Piles and piles of human bones."

"Sacrifício humano," Alessandro whispered.

Dick shivered.

Alessandro raised his eyebrows, twice, in quick succession, then winked at Dick.

The baron grinned, pleased with himself. "American tourist?"

Dick grinned back, shoved his museum brochure into his jacket pocket and stuck out his hand. "Sure am. Dave's the name."

"Alessandro DuMarier." The slim, dark young man with almond eyes clasped Dick's outstretched hand before the baron could.

"Dominic Di Medici." The Italian extended his own. "What do you think of the exhibit? I had quite a hand," he said, snickering at his own pun as he took Dick's hand in his and shook it, "in the tour."

"It's really um…" Dick thought, searching for what Tourist Dave Mathews would say. "Nice. It's really nice."

"Honestly, it's a bit stuffy in here, with all of these dignitaries." The baron inclined his head toward Bruce and Madame DuMarier, then shrugged. "But what are you going to do?"

Alessandro snorted, derisive.

"Alessandro's father's bodyguards…" Baron Di Medici looked around the room for the bruisers, sighing. "Keep a tight rein on things."

Alessandro nodded in agreement. "They are too…" He made a waving, dismissive motion in the air with his hands, then shrugged. "I want to lose them."

Dick shrugged back in vague commiseration. He didn't know quite what to say now, so he reached for his camera. Better play the part, and might as well get a picture of the necklace anyway. Could come in handy later, even if it was just for his scrapbook.

"Oh, no!" Dominic scolded, his hand pushing at Dick's Nikon. "No pictures in this gallery."

"Oh. I thought…"

The baron smiled, just a small quirk of his mouth. Followed by a self-important, "But I can take you to an area of the museum where you can see some of these treasures. Some are…" he raised an arm toward nothing in particular. "Some are in storage. I could take you to see them." He looked over at Alessandro. "We could."

Alessandro raised an eyebrow, tapping his foot restlessly. Across the room, Bruce was almost mirroring Alessandro's impatience, though Dick knew it was as much curiosity as restlessness, and it wasn't directed at Lorena, who was dragging him toward the bust of a River God.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dick watched as Bruce shifted direction, made a point of disentangling himself from Lorena's arm and wandering nearer.

"Gosh, really?" That didn't sound terribly promising, but any time with one of the suspects would probably pay off. The best detective listens, always. And if there was one thing Gotham's master criminals had taught him: criminals might be cowardly and superstitious, but they did love to talk.

"Now?" the man asked.

"Dominic!" Bruce strode close. He made a show of tilting his head and admiring the necklace, whistling softly with appreciation. "Nice exhibit, eh?"

The baron laughed, a short bark. "Mr. Wayne, I would think you'd be as tired of it as say…" he looked around the room. "As Mademoiselle Lorena is, by this point."

"Come, Baron Di Medici. Surely it's Bruce by now?" He clapped the blond man on the back. Dick could smell Eau Savauge cologne waft toward his nose.

"Alessandro," Bruce nodded.

"Bruce."

"Chatting up the tourists, then?" Bruce inclined his head toward Dick, playboy tycoon act fully in place.

"Some of us," Dominic said, his tone reproachful, "have not been with the exhibit for as long as you have." The baron widened his eyes, dramatic. "We are still enjoying the thrill of sharing the exhibit with the public."

"Dominic, I'm surprised at you," Bruce laughed. "I know these are emeralds, but we're not all so—jaded—as you imagine, you know."

Alessandro made a noise between a sigh and a snort.

"Was that a joke, Bruce?" The baron took off his glasses and tapped Bruce's lapel with them. "That's hardly even up to your standards, is it?"

"One does try," Bruce said dryly.

Dick smiled, in what he hoped was his best 'Gosh! American Tourist' grin and polished his camera lens.

"Oh, Bruce!" Madame DuMarier called from across the room. Her high heels made little clipping sounds on the tile as she trotted toward him. "Senhora Fortunato has arrived."

"Ah, Genoveva," Bruce said, smiling blandly. "By all means, we must pay our respects to one of the exhibit's main donors."

"But of course," she said, taking his arm, leading him away.

"So, Dave, isn't it?" the baron asked when Bruce was gone, his voice low.

Dick nodded.

"Would you like to explore things a bit? Go behind the scenes at the Louvre?"

"Now?"

Alessandro leaned in, nodding as he lifted Dick's camera, turning it in his hand. "Nikonos Rangefinder," he said. "Nice."

"No time like the present, is there?" The baron said, and the look on the Italian's face made Dick think of Satan now more than ever. He checked his watch. "Soon, I have obligations. But now? I can make the time."

"We can make the time," Alessandro agreed, his voice melodic.

Was the baron talking about the Red meeting? That was certainly possible. Dick felt his heart beat faster. Maybe he could get this guy to talk. "Say, the thing you've got later isn't a meeting, is it?"

"It could be …"

Dick watched the man stroke his goatee. Was he getting nervous? "A special meeting?"

The man frowned.

Dick wished he knew whatever password these Reds must use. What secret code might work, because he didn't want to queer the deal. "Because word on the street is," he said, trying for worldly, "is that some of you guys have certain," he searched for the right way to phrase things. "Certain special interests, and I'd like…" He trailed off, waiting to see if his mark took the bait.

"You'd like?" Alessandro dropped the camera, still slung around Dick's neck; let it fall against Dick's chest with a little 'thunk'. He tilted his head, smoky eyes boring into Dick's own.

"I'd like," Dick said, making it up as he went. "I'd like to… be in on that."

For a long moment no one said anything. The baron stroked his beard thoughtfully. Then his tongue darted out to wet his upper lip and he reached toward Dick, and to Dick's surprise, whipped the museum brochure from his brown corduroy jacket's pocket. The man turned to a page with a map of the Louvre. Brandishing a pen, he put an 'x' on the map. Then he said, his voice a whisper, "Three floors below this mark, there is a room labeled 'antiquities storage 7b'. We'll meet there, si? Ten minutes?"

"Okay," Dick said.

Sneaking a glance at the Doctor's bodyguard, one flanking each side of the entrance, Di Medici added, handing Dick the map. "Do not both leave at the same time."

Dick nodded, curtly. All business.

The man rubbed his hands together. "I want to show you something special, young Dave. I don't think you'll be disappointed."

Alessandro quirked an eyebrow, then languidly wandered over to peruse a golden snake coiling around a jade jaguar. Four minutes later, he too had disappeared.

Memorizing the map, keeping track of the time, Dick wandered between the displays and treasures, until he ended up near Bruce, who was speaking in Portuguese with a newcomer, a well-dressed dowager. A bored-looking Lorena waited at his side.

Dick made a small note on his brochure, near Dominic's 'x', then nonchalantly tapped the paper in his hand.

"Mademoiselle Lorena," he heard Bruce begin. "We do want Senhora Fortunato to enjoy her visit to the Louvre. Let's just take a look at what else this French national treasure has to offer." He smiled his most charming smile as he pulled his own brochure from his interior jacket pocket and unfolded it, studying. Lorena helpfully held up one side of the paper, brushing Bruce's hand, then lingering as they opened the brochure's map together.

Dick stepped closer, seemingly aimless, his own brochure in one hand, other busied with adjusting the lens of his camera.

"Senhora Fortunato, I think you should definitely take in the Etruscan exhibits, " Bruce said. "Don't you think so, darling?" At Lorena's blush and the older woman's simper, Bruce took the paper, began folding it.

On cue, looking the other way, Dick stepped forward, absent-mindedly bumping into Bruce.

Bruce let the brochure slip from his fingers. "Oh, how clumsy of me." He slowly stooped, pretended to get a pain in his knee and rubbed it, smiling ingratiatingly up at Lorena and the Senhora.

Dave the helpful tourist swept down to the floor first, retrieving, then switching his annotated brochure for Bruce's. He held it up with a flourish. "Here you go, mister!"

"Thank you, young man," Bruce answered, giving Dick one split second of eye to eye contact before saying to Lorena, under his breath. "Turista Americano."

Lorena giggled. "Que pode você fazer?"

"Indeed. What can you do?" Bruce rolled his eyes, shrugged. Then Bruce stood and tapped Lorena's arm with the brochure, winking as he slid it into his own pocket. "So gauche."

Dick polished the lens of his Rangefinder harder and wandered toward the gallery exit, trying to look much more casual than he felt. He'd just gotten an invite from a possible suspect, one who might tell him about the Red powwow. All he had to do was play his cards right. Bruce was going to be so impressed!


	9. The Plot Thickens

It was warm in the 'museum staff only' stairwell, dim, deserted and stuffy with the smell of chemicals and dust. Dick found Alessandro one floor down, casually slouched against a concrete wall, hands in his pockets, smoking a cigarette like a delinquent.

"Hi," Dick said, surprised to see him there, instead of the storage room with the "x."

"Olá," Alessandro said without lifting his head from the wall behind him, watching Dick with his enormous, dark eyes.

"You waited for me?"

Alessandro shrugged, a lazy smile forming around the Gitane cigarette in his mouth. "Maybe." He exhaled slowly, blowing a stream of gray smoke past Dick's face. "Did you want me to?"

"Sure," Dave the tourist answered, confused. "Unless, you know," he added, "unless we're missing the meeting."

Alessandro raised a languid, long-boned hand to flick his cigarette to the cement floor, crushing it with an expensive black leather Beatle boot. "You weren't followed, were you?"

"No."

"Come with me, then." Alessandro led him further, deep into the bowels of the museum. Along dark corridors, between shipping crates and service lifts, stacks of boxes and broken display cabinets, glancing back now to make sure they were indeed still alone.

Finally he stopped in front of a nondescript door. Alessandro tried the knob, then cocked his head for Dick to follow him inside. It was a tight, cluttered storage area. "This isn't Antiquities Storage 7B," Dick said.

"I have something else to show you." Alessandro pulled the door closed behind them with a thump. Inside, Egyptian antiquities spilled from half-emptied crates. Wooden sarcophagi, funeral furniture, alabaster unguent jars, a broken, gilt-covered statue. The entire space was dark, too warm and thick with packing materials and dust. Dick started to ask why this room mattered, but then the packing materials and dust got the better of him and he coughed.

"Alright?" Alessandro patted him on the back. And then suddenly he wasn't patting him, but he was holding Dick's shoulders, soft lips on his and then he was trying to lick his way in and when Dick opened his mouth to protest, Alessandro was trying cram his tongue down Dick's throat. He tasted like cigarettes.

Dick heard himself make a little yelping noise from somewhere deep in his chest. He whipped his neck to the side and Alessandro kissed the hollow of his throat. "Hey!" Dick said, prying the guy's hands off, holding them away from him.

Alessandro panted, dark almond eyes stricken. "I thought…"

"Well, you thought wrong, mister." Dick shook his head, appalled. "You just do that all the time? Bring guys down here and try to—"

Alessandro stared at him, focused on the area between his nose and upper lip.

Uh-oh. Dick reached up to feel his appliance. Sure enough, his mustache had become halfway dislodged, loose at the corner. Guess it wasn't good for kissing.

"Who are you?" Alessandro asked, blinking at him. "Why do you have that—"

Dick opened his mouth to say something, anything, when from the corridor outside the room came the sound of footsteps. Alessandro started at the noise. He locked the door they'd come in and then was up very close again. He put a finger to Dick's lips, shaking his head. "My stepfather will kill me," he whispered. "Shh." The steps grew closer. Eyes wild, he surveyed the room for an alternate exit. On the far wall was another door. "I'm sorry," he said into Dick's ear, pressing against him, whole body, placing a small kiss to the side of his jaw before Dick could react. Then he bolted through the door, gone.

Gathering his wits, panting a little himself, Dick ducked into the dimmest corner of the storage room, behind a large, upended sarcophagus. Worst came to worst, he could push it over to surprise whoever it was and make it to the other door. In case it was Dominic, he waited in the dimly lit room to see what the footsteps would do, and listened, ready to bolt. The footsteps came closer and closer, slowly, echoing on the hard, concrete floor. Not the steps of a casual museum employee, or even a guard, unless he missed his guess. The steps stopped outside the door of the room. Dick held his breath as someone stood a few feet away from him, he and the unknown intruder each only separated by a few feet and a closed door. And a very heavy sarcophagus. Then, miraculously, the steps began again, and whomever it was continued walking slowly down the hall.

Digging the flashlight from his carefully concealed, pared-down utility belt, Dick consulted the map he'd taken from Bruce. There were no markings on this one, but he knew where Dominic's 'x' had been. This room wasn't it. Perhaps the meeting was taking place, there, at this very minute. Maybe Alessandro had been a diversion, to keep him from the meeting. Good thing he'd kept his wits about him.

There, in the darkness, he stripped to his Robin costume. He stowed his corduroy jacket, khakis, and the rest of his kit at the bottom of a dusty crate, covering it with excelsior. Domino mask in place, he weighed his options. Which door? Either way could theoretically get him to the room Dominic had marked, Antiquities Storage Room 7B. He could risk the unknown shadower in the hallway or running into Alessandro again, but this time, as Robin. He opened the door Alessandro had disappeared through.

The museum's multiple basements were labyrinthine, but he was Robin, and it was nothing compared to plenty of other places and puzzles he'd faced. He was zeroing in on his target location, approximately twenty yards away, when he caught sight of movement in his peripheral vision. He slunk into the shadows, plastering himself to the corridor wall, but nothing else happened. He calculated the passage of four minutes. Nothing. He sighed, softly. Maybe he was just getting jittery.

Robin edged closer to his final destination. He crept in front of Storage Room 7B. His gloved hand was on the door when he caught the sound of movement behind him. He turned, ready to fight. But before he knew what he was even fighting, something struck the back of his head and he crumpled. Robin fell to the concrete floor as the world around him went black.


End file.
